


Redemption Lies Plainly In Truth

by ethereal_heartbreak



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Odyssey
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alexios hates his name, Alexios is Deimos (Assassin's Creed), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Art, Art is used as a coping device, Assassin's Creed - Freeform, Assassin's Creed: Odyssey, Canon Gay Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Everyone lives together in Sparta, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hallucinations, Headaches & Migraines, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Torture, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Mental Instability, POV Multiple, Thaletas has a need to fix, Thaletas is an officer, good ending, he prefers Deimos, no beta we die like spartan warriors, only Thaletas will call him Deimos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:54:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27059833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethereal_heartbreak/pseuds/ethereal_heartbreak
Summary: Deimos hates his birth name. He hates when people laugh too loud, or when the soldiers look at him like he's a rotting stray dog.But Deimos loves a lot of things, too. He loves apples and horses and taking walks alone.Thaletas was the enemy. He was a symbol of everything Deimos wanted to burn to the ground. Until he wasn't.
Relationships: Alexios/Thaletas (Assassin's Creed), Kassandra/Kyra (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 45





	1. Sweet Like Honey, Bitter Like Peppermint

**Author's Note:**

> woah hey, hello! this is my first fic on ao3, but definitely not my first time around a fanfiction. I thought this would be a great way to start off, considering i could find no deimos!alexios x thaletas (if you have any, please share it with me). soo, i decided to write it! this chapter was actually written at 4 in the morning, so go easy on me. (Final note: the title happens to be lyrics from the song called Achilles, Come Down by Gang of Youths. It's very good, and very fitting.)  
> TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: Implied mental illness/mental instability, hallucinations, headaches, blood, mentions of torture, mentions of stabbing corpses.  
> A reminder that comments and kudos motivate me personally when I see them. You don't have to, of course, but just know that it does make a writer happy :)  
> (okay that's it have fun!)

Deimos was trying to learn to love the little things.

He had been able to love the big things quite early on; Kassandra, his mater, Sparta… the things that he wanted to destroy at first. And then he realized that he had wanted to destroy everything, because all of it was perfect, so serene and sure in its place in the world, except for him.

His body seemed still, yet his brain screamed and pushed at the sides of his skull. The animal in him, the one he pushed down every morning in hopes of a better day, longed to be free; to trash market stalls and burn those who dared to defy him. But that’s what he was taught, what he was conditioned to do, and even though he found himself doubting everything at times, he knew in his core that he couldn’t be like that. Not after seeing the aftermath of his actions.

So, in these three years that he and his family had settled in Sparta, he had resigned himself to love the little things.

He was getting there, too.

Deimos loved the sound of the water fountain near his home, the feel of the smooth marble edge on his thighs as he sat on it. He loved petting the horses at the stable and he loved eating apples as he walked through town, giving the cores to the mares that the merchant had been trying to sell for almost two weeks at this point.

Like now, as he sat with a charcoal pencil and parchment, perched on the edge of the fountain. He felt peaceful, almost like he was truly at home.

Loving things in the day distracted him from the nightmares that plagued him in the night. Still, no amount of love can make his migraines go away, nor can it make the screaming stop of the hallucinations of blood dripping from the walls.

Is it his blood, or someone else’s?

Still, there were things Deimos hated. Things that made anger bubble in his chest, things that made him want to punch holes in walls and stab already-lifeless corpses.

He hated when people called him Alexios, although mater reminded him that Deimos was never his name, that she and his family had never wanted him to take on the name of the god of terror. But it was his name, it was for way too long, and his scars always burned when people called him Alexios. He was not Alexios. Alexios died on top of that gods-forsaken mountain, and he couldn’t just parade as someone he wasn’t as a way to push towards a forgiveness he didn’t have yet.

He hated when people laughed too loud, when they laughed from their stomach and not their chest. Deimos hated when people laughed like it was easy, because it had never been easy for him to laugh. 

He couldn’t remember in his life, before he was reunited with his family, that he had actually laughed at someone. Not sneered, not given a pitiful, sarcastic chuckle at something that actually made him sick; he meant a real laugh, when warmth builds in your bones and you can’t help but show everyone around you that yes, what just happened amused me, look at how I’m able to relax around people, look how I’m not paranoid over strangers coming at me with knives and screaming until my ears bled.

He especially hated the way the soldiers looked at him. They never said anything, oh no, but he could tell what they were thinking. They didn’t think he deserved forgiveness. They didn’t think he deserved a chance at Spartan honor.

Maybe he didn’t, if he was entirely honest. Maybe he didn’t deserve this fountain, or the apples, or the horses or the market streets. Maybe he didn’t deserve Kassandra, or Stentor, or his mother.

Deimos gripped his pencil so tight he swears he hears it snap a bit. That’s not what brings him back, though; it’s his sister’s voice.

“Alexios!” Kassandra waves, further getting her sibling’s attention.

When Deimos turns, he sees three people; Kassandra, a woman to her right dressed in olive, and a man to Kassandra’s left in Spartan armor, specifically a general’s garb.

The muscled man sighed, closing his sketchbook. So much for a relaxing morning.

“Kassandra,” He says simply, standing to greet the small group. He sets his art supplies on the rim of the fountain next to him as he stands, making sure it’s balanced well enough that the parchment won’t fall into the water.

His sister is as boisterous as ever, a wide grin showing off her pearly white teeth.

The man next to her looked Deimos up and down, examining him in a way that makes the former villain mildly uncomfortable; he had the sharp eyes of people who knew who he was, and the upturned lip of a Spartan who didn’t much care who he wanted to be.

“This is Kyra, my… dear friend,” She motions to the woman to her right, who smiles and nods, but she doesn’t look Deimos in the eye. Even still, he gives a small head bow, muttering a greeting to her.

“And this is… Thaletas, Kyra’s friend. Thaletas, Kyra, this is my brother, Alexios.”

Thaletas is not afraid to look Deimos in the face. The two men lock eyes, and because his helmet is in his hands and his posture is tall, Deimos can watch the officer’s Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard.

“They led a revolution against a corrupt Athenian leader on the Silver Islands.” Kassandra says what Deimos already knows, maybe because she’s unaware of that fact, or maybe because she just wants to pretend that he didn’t know anything. “Turns out, he ended up being tied to the Cult, and…”

Kassandra trails off. Kyra looks away, the hand on his misthios sister’s arm probably being the thing that stopped her rambling.

Deimos swallows, and nods, because he’s used to this. He’s used to Kassandra slipping up, mentioning the Cult and what they did, and he’s used to people treating him like he’s insane, like he’ll snap as soon as they mention the cult he led for so, so, so many years.

Too many years.

His headache is coming back now.

Yet, Thaletas does not avert his gaze, not like Kassandra and Kyra. He is not staring, and he is not making eye contact anymore; but he is nodding thoughtfully and he is not cowering like he’s scared of a man who left everything but a dagger in his boot at home today.

“Why are they here?” The words come out far harsher than they sounded in his head, but Deimos does not correct himself. He stands a little taller, digging his nails into his forearm as they stay casually crossed.

Kassandra is glad for the distraction. “Kyra wanted to visit, to see Sparta with me, and Thaletas is on leave until further notice. Right?”

Thaletas nods. “That’s right. I’ve missed Sparta.”

Deimos’ eyes fall back to the officer.

His voice is rough and thick with accent, but the words flow like honey off his tongue and Deimos has never heard a voice that he wanted to listen to more than Thaletas’. Gods, he barely said anything, yet here Deimos is, silently hoping for more.

Deimos simply hums in response, averting his gaze back to his sister. She was easier to look at; he knew her face, and he sure as Hades did not want to trace his eyes over the scars and lines on her cheeks.

Kassandra kicks dirt up, looking at her sandals, and Deimos knows that this is going to be good. “Kyra and I have plans for the day, but Thaletas said he wanted to see the woods. You know what I’m talking about, Alexios-”

“I’m not taking him there.” He holds up a hand, desperately keeping it from shaking.

She frowns, and Deimos curses internally. “I know why you don’t want to, but you know it well, and he deserves to know it, too.”

“We said it’s ours-”

“It’s for people dear to us, too.” Kassandra’s frown deepened. “Both of them are dear to me.”

He knows what she’s trying to do. He doesn’t need someone. He doesn’t need a friend, or a lover, or whatever Kassandra is planning. He doesn’t need someone to talk to, to spill his feelings to.

Deimos doesn’t need someone to share apples with and to pet the mares with. He doesn’t need someone to walk through the market with him. He thought he did, at first. But then, he realized that no one wanted to be that for him. So he didn’t need it.

But Kassandra looks genuinely upset, and Thaletas’ eyes have become hard again.

Deimos sighs, rubbing his temples. His headache is slowly progressing from a rock to the sides of his head to a training mace, and he wants to scream in their faces and tell them to leave him alone.

“Fine. Fine, I’ll show him.”

Kassandra grins. She grins, and Deimos’ headache subsides just a little bit. “Thank you-”

Shut up.” He grabs his art supplies, tucking the pencil behind his ear. “Just shut up.”

She does, but her grin does not fade.

He finally, finally, lays his eyes back on Thaletas. Kassandra and Kyra say goodbye, but he doesn’t hear it, not really, not even as he nods.

After a silent moment, the officer clears his throat. “Where are we going, anyway? Kassandra wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Deimos blinks, then nods, then starts down the road, towards the hills. “Kassandra found it when we was young, with our mater. She showed it to me when we came back here. It’s been hidden all these years.”

He follows at a steady pace next to Deimos. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

Deimos chuckles, but it’s not a laugh. “It’s better if I don’t ruin the surprise. Kassandra will get angry if I do.” His fingers tap against the leather of his sketchbook as he walks, a pattern slowly forming. It calms his mind, helps him try to keep his head facing the road.

Thaletas nods. There’s a slightly-awkward silence for a few heartbeats, before the officer speaks, and Deimos knows he will, not because he wants to, but because he’s the type to think that the person with him will want him to.

“Er, Alexios…”

“Deimos.” The correction comes out before he can even really think about it, before he can rationally decide if that’s really where he wants his morning to go. But it's where it's going now, and he will not correct himself. Not today, not tomorrow, not when the seasons change again.

Thaletas dips his head, and the smile on his face is the one you adopt when you’re dealing with stubborn children. “Your sister said that if I started calling you ‘Deimos’, she’ll eat my eyes.” 

“That sounds like Kassandra. But it’s not her name to choose.” He breathes in. Then out. The sun is burning his eyes. “I don’t like Alexios.” He didn't. He hated Alexios. It didn't sound like his name, it wasn't his name, it sounded like being addressed as a stranger. Or if you had a secret identity, one only you knew, and everyone's using a fake name, one you stick with because it's nothing like you.

“Why?”

Deimos swallows. The lump in his throat isn’t quite pushed down, and he’s afraid he’ll choke on his own anxiety, but he’s okay, he’s not choking, and he has to answer the question somehow.He has to answer the question, and he has to pretend that his head isn’t killing him and that the blood-soaked body he sees out of the corner of his eye isn’t there, even though it is, just for him.

“Because it was a promise. One I didn’t keep.”

Thaletas wants to, but he does not ask any more questions.

\------------------------------

The rest of the walk was spent in a comfortable silence, the only noise coming from the forest around them. After what felt like forever, Deimos approached the entrance to the small clearing, Thaletas none the wiser to where they were going exactly. 

This was probably because the only way to know the entrance was one of two ways. The first way was to accidentally fall backwards into the tree branches, only to find out that the branches were not really branches, just lots of leaves. The second way was to know the person who accidentally fell backwards into the trees.

“This way,” Deimos said shortly, pushing back the thin branches and tons of leaves for Thaletas.

“Through there?” He was still holding his helmet under his arm.

“Yes. Come on, I can’t hold this all day.”

He watched Thaletas’ glistening orbs move wildly as he examined his surroundings. And then he stepped through the entrance.

Deimos followed, letting the branches fall back into place.

Thaletas gasped, gently letting his helmet fall to the soft, leaf-ridden ground.

In front of the two men were the ruins of some sort of altar, the only things left being half-ruined marble pillars, the white stone base, and an equally-as-white altar in the middle. Vines and flowers grew through every crack they could find, like weeds invading a sacred place. On the altar sat more flowers, but these were plucked, vibrant colors or yellows, pinks, purples, and reds.

“This is…” Thaletas didn’t finish his sentence. Deimos didn’t need him to. 

“We named it the Shrine of Myrrine. She isn't dead, of course, but she... deserves one nonetheless.” Deimos finds his eyes wandering, too, even though he's seen every inch of his place, hundreds of times. He's ran his fingers over every rough spot of marble, smelled every type of plant in the clearing, spent mornings and nights figuring out which part of the day her preferred it to be when he visited.

Thaletas’ sandals crunched autumn leaves in half as he walked around the shrine, soaking its isolated beauty in.

Deimos soaked in Thaletas.

His jaw was sharp, a fair-sized braid almost long enough to rest on his shoulder. Lines creased around his lips and cheeks, scars littering his arms where his armor did not provide him protection. His skin was dark, darker than Deimos', but then again, Deimos hadn't gotten enough sun in his life and his armor never helped his complexion. The sunlight gave him the illusion of a halo.

But, of course, Deimos had heard of Thaletas, and he knew what really lied in wait for him.

How couldn’t he? At the time, him and his then-fiance were unravelling his work at the Silver Islands. And although he now saw that the officer’s cause was just, he had no halo. There would be no halo for Thaletas when he passed. Just like himself.

They give halos to scholars and poets and philosophers that tell us things we already knew, just in a different way.

Warriors do not get halos. 

“Deimos?”

Deimos blinks. He was staring. Thaletas noticed.

“I-”

Thaletas raised an eyebrow. “Did you hear me?”

“Oh, no. No, I didn’t.”

“I asked you what it was like.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“The cult. What was it like?”

The cult.

The thing that destroyed his life. The thing he can’t get rid of. They tortured him. They hurt him, over and over, because it’s 'how you survive'. He was used, like a pawn, he was no king. Disposable, yet so mighty. He felt true power, and true fear. They'd slice into his flesh, over and over again, and then tell him that his blood was holy, that his blood was sacred, that every drop he bled, from him and from others, was to gain the favor of a god he did not believe in anymore.

“Complicated,” Deimos admitted after a long, long moment in thought. He sat in the grass. It was cool against his palms and legs. “I wouldn’t go back, if that’s what you’re asking. I love Sparta.”

He does. But, then again, that’s what he’s supposed to say. He’s supposed to lament about how he’s given up his treacherous ways, and how he’d lay down his life in an instant if it meant serving Sparta. But he wouldn’t. Deimos would not do that for any country, for any group, for any one. He would not commit himself to something so fully like that, not again.

Thaletas nodded thoughtfully, walking over to Deimos slowly. He sat next to him in the grass, looking up at the sky through the treetops.

“You sat alone this morning. Is that always the case?"

Deimos nodded slowly. “Usually.” His fingers found the grass, and he pulled at it, ripping the green plants from their earthly home. The blades of grass felt nice in between his fingers, so he rubbed. He rubbed until they didn't feel good anymore; after a few seconds, they became hot and itchy, so he'd let them drop back onto the earth.

“I’m here for a while, and I doubt Kyra and Kassandra will leave each other’s presences for very long.” He looked at Deimos, who turned his head as well, watching the officer lick his lower lip.

“Kassandra is very particular about her lovers,” Deimos stated, his voice low.

“So she is.” A wistful sigh, with a stark lack of pining.

“You were saying about me being alone?”

Thaletas turned back to the shrine. “The sketchbook, the pencil. You draw, right? Sketch, like a lofty artist from Athens?”

He ignored the jab, because frankly, Deimos wanted to know where this conversation was going and why there was a pit in his stomach. “When I can focus. And when I’m not training.”

Because he did train, too. But training made the hallucinations and the headaches worse, and after an hour, he always had to stop. He’d buy an apple, use his knife to cut off chunks as he walked. He’d pet the horses.

“I’ve always wanted to be sketched, like a model. Maybe you could sketch me.”

Deimos’ earthen orbs found Thaletas’ eyebrows, which could use a little work. They explored the way his bangs fell over his forehead, and the way his face softened when he wasn’t concentrated on anything in particular and the way he wet his lips after grinning at his own jokes.

“I doubt an officer like you could sit still long enough for me to get more than a stick figure drawn.”

Thaletas grinned again, and Deimos’ breathing stopped for the slightest of moments.

“I’ll try, just for you, Deimos.”

His name on Thaletas’ tongue sounded so sweet, it was almost like they had never been on different sides of a war. But there were barbs that dug into his body, locking that pit in his stomach in place.

Deimos closed his eyes, and the world drifted away, just for a moment.


	2. Sunkissed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven days have come and gone. Seven days that Deimos is sure he'll obsess over until he keels over and dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! second chapter is here :) i had a bit of trouble finding motivation, but i got through it!! i'm actually kind of proud.
> 
> TW for this chapter: Intrusive thoughts, violence, mentions of torture, the usual mental instability that comes with deimos.

A week had gone by since Kyra and Thaletas had returned to Sparta. Seven whole days and six whole nights of Deimos watching Thaletas and Thaletas pretending that he didn’t want to talk to Deimos until the world stopped spinning and the birds stopped chirping. Seven days and six nights of Deimos leaving a room when Thaletas entered it, seven days and six nights of Deimos putting his knowledge of Sparta’s back routes to good use until the two couldn’t avoid each other any longer.

Each day sat heavy in both men’s minds, stewing and festering. Deimos worried more than Thaletas; he went over every moment obsessively, wondering if every movement of his body, every moment of pretend-eye contact and brush of shoulders would have changed everything if only they had not happened. Every day was its own box in his head, its own chest of treasure.

On the first day, Thaletas did not visit Deimos at the fountain. He was okay with this; after their conversation at the shrine, he needed some time alone. Some time to breathe, without having the air being stifled from his lungs just at the mere sight of the Spartan officer.

This was also the day that Deimos learned that Kyra and Thaletas were staying with them for the duration of their trip, another piece of information people seemed keen on keeping from the dark-eyed man, for reasons he could only obsess over. This was revealed to him at dinner, a period of time in which both men pretended that they were not staring at each other as they ate.

Kyra was staying in Kassandra’s room, naturally, and Thaletas in the small spare room that was attached to Deimos’ room. There wasn’t even a door; they hung a large cloth over the entrance way for privacy. This, of course, was something Deimos was so ready to argue about-

And then he saw Thaletas smile sweetly at _him_ , thanked _him_ for his hospitality, and move his small amount of things into the spare room, which was nothing more than a glorified storage closet that had been cleaned out before the two rebels arrived. He did not argue then. Deimos kept his mouth shut.

On the first night, Deimos did not sleep. He was doing so well in the past weeks, too; the nightmares were bearable, although after he woke up from one, it was a miracle from the gods if he managed to drift off again for more than an hour. But not on the first night, oh no. Every time he closed his eyes, Thaletas was above him, raising a knife branded in with the Spartan seal. Every time he tried to roll over and rest his eyes, a man dressed as a spartan officer was behind him, almost about to pounce. 

Deimos watched the night sky instead, until he could see the pink and orange of the sunrise poking through.

On the second day, Thaletas did find Deimos at the fountain. He sat next to him, quietly watching him sketch the woman selling fresh bread across from them. They did not speak the entire time, not until Thaletas said something about dinner and the two of them walked home quietly, Thaletas not even greeting the people in the market with more than a smile. The only thing he heard was the sound of his pencil dragging across the paper, and Thaletas’ light, airy breathing. It made his heart flutter. From nerves or something else, he was not sure.

Deimos was not sure about a lot of things, even on the second day. He was not entirely sure if he liked being watched while he worked, too. He was used to being alone. He wasn’t sure if he liked the way Thaletas’ fingers brushed along his back as they walked, or the way he called Deimos’ name for dinner from the garden without even caring that Kassandra was glaring and Myrrine was suddenly unable to look at him. Deimos was so used to being alone.

The third day brought Thaletas back to Deimos, this time bearing food. Deimos could not bring himself to thank the officer in a voice above a whisper; he just nodded to him, like a child receiving a gift on their birthday from someone they rarely know.

They ate goat cheese, bread, and salted meat. The former cultist knew exactly where the bread was from, and the cheese, yet he did not say anything the entire time. He did not comment on the way Thaletas licked his fingers after devouring a piece of meat, nor did he say a word when Thaletas beamed at Deimos when he caught him staring.

Thaletas left him alone once they finished eating, and Deimos wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted him to go.

Once he was gone, Deimos cursed himself inwardly. Thaletas probably thought him some fool, with the lack of actual conversation they had up until this point. The truth was, he found conversation hard nowadays. He always has, really, the Cult never cared about teaching him social skills. He had to learn those on his own, and by the gods, were his examples skewed. People wanted to talk to him, now; some did, at least. Deimos knew for a fact, on the third day, that he would not pretend to be someone he wasn’t with Thaletas.

Thaletas was a fresh start, of sorts. Someone new, someone he didn’t have to keep up appearances with. Not all of them.

On the fourth day, Stentor and Deimos argued, something that was far from rare in their household. He hadn’t wanted to, not in front of Thaletas; the only person who called him Deimos, who didn’t care how broken he was. No one made Deimos so angry, and so utterly calm, and he didn’t want to ruin that.

On the fourth day, however, Stentor had said something that Deimos doesn’t even remember now, and Deimos snapped. For a rare, deadly moment, there was silence in his brain. And then he could hear bones breaking in his head. He could see his hands around Stentor’s neck, squeezing, squeezing, until he stops writhing and squirming and he’s just. Limp. Lifeless.

But Deimos does not touch him. He does not reach over the table, over Thaletas, and he does not choke Stentor until he’s limp. He just screams. He screams, and half of what he says does not make sense. His screams turned into loud ramblings, and Kassandra was angry, but she did not move. She didn’t even yell back. She rubbed her temples and glared at both of her brothers, but she didn’t yell back. Stentor, however, did yell back, of course; but after a while, he shrunk back into his seat, watching Deimos spit and scream and heave in horrible, shaking breaths.

The worst part, to Deimos, was the look on Thaletas’ face, whom he had noticed about halfway into his rant. It was not anger, nor was it fear; he was sure the officer had been through worse. No, it was a sadness, a pity Deimos saw in his sister, in the people on the street when his knees gave out and he could not breathe anymore. He hated it, loathed it.

On the fourth day, Deimos ran. He ran when he could not scream anymore. He ran, and he did not look back, not until the sun was coming up and his eyes stung from crying. He stumbled on rocks, yes, and once or twice, he got caught on a branch, but he kept going, until the city was behind him and he was in the serenity of nature.

On the fourth day, no one followed him.

The fifth day was different. On the fifth day, Deimos took Phobos out for a ride in the country. The horse didn’t get as much action as he did when Kassandra was hunting for her family. Sure, he was ridden well enough; but not what a horse that was bred for riding was meant to do. So, Deimos told himself that if he was going to try sometimes, a good way to prove he was getting better was to care more for animals. He loved Phobos, he did; so much so, he seemed to be able to forget the horses he had gutted as a sign of war to both Athenians and Spartans.

As he was saddling up, the thought crossed his mind that Kassandra would want him to invite Thelatas. That she would appreciate his effort to spend time with someone that wasn’t a pad of parchment and a pencil. Deimos knew that Kassandra would smile if she saw the two out the window, and she’d probably pull him aside after dinner and thank Deimos for trying, like he wasn’t trying enough for her.

This realization made his choice to not go inside and invite the officer a tad bit sweeter.

It didn’t last long, though, his sickly sweet victory. As soon as he mounted Phobos and took the reins, the door opened, and a sun kissed Thaletas stepped out, smiling just enough for Deimos’ hackles to drop.

He wanted to go with Deimos. Deimos was hesitant.

“Phobos is our only horse,” He had replied curtly, not looking Thaletas in the eye as he ran his thumb over the worn leather of the reins. “There’s no one for you to ride.”

“I’ll borrow a horse at the stables.” This, of course, silently infuriated Deimos; he had thought this through. Not a moment of thought was put into Thaletas’ answer, not a second was needed for him to think of a solution. He just knew.

So, they rode together, on that fifth day. They did not speak of Deimos’ outburst the night prior. They did not speak about their promises at the shrine, they did not speak about when Deimos was going to draw Thaletas or when Thaletas was going to ask him the obvious questions that everyone asks, eventually. They did not speak about how Deimos was sure, on the first night, Thaletas was going to kill him, and that was going to be the end of the infamous Deimos.

Even as Deimos led Thaletas farther into the woods, they did not speak about where they were going. The officer did not question his companion, so much so that Deimos felt a twinge of apprehension when Thaletas smiled at him.

“What?” He had hissed, and it sounded angry, so angry, but he was just scared. And that, in its own right, made him angry all over again.

“The beads, in your hair. They catch the sunlight, like they’re glowing.”

The twinge in his gut disappeared. It dissolved when Thaletas smiled, when he spoke of Deimos. He did glow, once, in a sick twist of irony. But it was not the sunlight that made his bones tingle.

“You look like a demi-god.”

Deimos’ shoulders raised again, and he sucked in an audible breath. He was no demi-god.

The sixth day came, and it went. It was relatively uneventful, except for the fact that Deimos found a small trinket on his side of the doorway, between Thaletas’ room and his. It was a necklace, with an eye pendant made of silver.

Deimos thought it was stunning. He ran his thumb over the pendant, letting out a calmed breath as the metal was smooth and cold under his touch.

He put on that necklace, on the sixth day, and silently swore to himself to never take it off.

It was the seventh day, now, and Deimos’ fragile facade was about to break. Stentor was snarling and hissing, and Deimos could only hear the sounds of wolves that he had to strangle with his bare hands as a kid.

Kassandra was yelling, too, but Deimos couldn’t tell exactly who she was yelling at. Maybe both of them. Thaletas was watching with Kyra, and he knew they wanted to jump in, to get into the fight, because Stentor was throwing a punch and actually hit Kassandra.

Deimos was pretty sure he actually heard a piece of dead, dried straw break in the back of his head. He couldn’t feel his limbs anymore, his mind was above his body, outside it.

He lunged for Stentor, snarling like a beast. The beast he was, inside, deep down where he liked to pretend that he was better. He was no better, there was no getting better for him.

Stentor’s eyes widened, his orbs now the size of saucers. Deimos did not care. He saw nothing but red, blind rage feuling him to go forward, to press Stentor into the wall.

The polemarch was strong, clearly a product of the agoge. He was the peak of Spartan health, but Deimos was not Spartan, he was not even human anymore.

His hands found Stentor’s neck.

He could hear bones snapping in his head, but Stentor was still struggling. He was yelling, too; but Deimos’ head was underwater, he was swimming in the ocean by himself, drowning, only able to see the surface.

Someone was pulling him off. Strong, large arms wrapped around him in a bear hug.

Kassandra was yelling.

The man holding him dragged Deimos outside, the door shutting loudly behind them. He thrashed and screamed, but his body ached, and he was dragged all the same behind the house, where no one could see them.

The man -it was definitely a man- brought the both of them to the ground, still holding Deimos tightly. His heart was still pumping, and his head was still underwater, but without someone to snarl and growl at, he was shaking.

“Deimos, calm…”

Thaletas. It’s always Thaletas nowadays. Thaletas is in his dreams. In his home. At his fountain in the morning, on the trails he rides and in his fucking head.

His shoulders slumped. Tears pricked Deimos’ eyes. He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t pretend like he was getting along just fine, like he could smile and wave and he didn’t want to plunge his blade into soft, vulnerable flesh, and it flip flopped between someone else’s and his.

Thaletas held him tight. “Breathe. You’re safe here, you’re safe now.”

He was not yelling at Deimos. His voice was calm, his accent thick and sweet; he breathed close to Deimos’ ear, but it was not unpleasant, not how people laughing too loud was unpleasant. It was soothing, bringing him back to earth, back to the garden they were in and back to Thaletas’ embrace.

And then he was being flipped around, the officer’s hands set deeply on his shoulders. Fingernails dug into his shoulders. “Get a hold of yourself, Deimos! What the hell were you thinking!?”

Thaletas lectured him like he was just another Spartan soldier, fresh from the agoge with so much to learn about the world. Like he hadn’t been through many wars, most fought in the place where he was forced to call home, where they treated him like a dog and then told him he was the chosen one.

Kassandra used a word, once, on one of the few times Deimos had felt like he was able to tell her about some of the things he went through. “They were gaslighting you,” She had said with a frown, and Deimos just nodded, because he was embarrassed that he didn’t know what that even meant. Context was enough, anyway, and he carried that indirect title with him, like a weight on his shoulders.

But Deimos was not a Spartan soldier straight from the agoge. He had not trained with polemarchs or been put up against other boys his age before he was even five feet tall. Oh, no. He was put in pits of bears and wolves who had not eaten for weeks, he was put against bloodthirsty warriors and people who embodied Deimos more than he did himself. 

He was no Spartan warrior. He was a beast, a beast who wore a collar and leash, a beast who has a Spartan brand on his flank.

Deimos wanted to scream all of this at Thaletas. He wanted to shriek and to punch him and he wanted to make Thaletas hurt, because he always hurt, everything was in pain and if he yelled loud enough, it was sure to stop.

But he couldn’t yell anymore, not after Stentor and Kassandra and everything else. His throat was raw and sore, so he hit. Deimos weakly banged his fists on Thaletas’ chest for a minute or so, tears forming.

He couldn’t help it. He would not help it. Deimos could not remember the last time he cried. Sobbed, even. He sobbed so hard now that his whole body shook as he laid his forehead against the Spartan’s chest.

Thaletas had been pissed, about thirty seconds ago. Now? The hardness drained from his face, his eyes softening as a hesitant hand found Deimos’ spine. He lightly traced comforting circles on the other man’s spin, letting out a breath..

“Forget it,” He said after a moment filled only with Deimos’ quiet sobs. “You can tell me later.”

It was a promise, that statement. It was not a question of if Deimos was going to tell him about why he screamed at Stentor so much or why he acted out like that. It was a question of when he would tell him. When Deimos would be ready to do more than draw or eat in Thaletas’ presence, when they would stop dancing around each other like they were circling at the beginning of a fight, sizing up their opponent before one of them lunges and aims for the neck.

Thaletas had not come to Sparta for Deimos, although the man was a morbid curiosity of his. Yet, here he was, with a weapon sobbing against his chest, clutching his tunic like he was the last life raft in the middle of the dark, deep ocean.

He could feel Deimos nod, still sobbing, but he did not look down at him. Thaletas just pulled him closer.

“On your own time.”


	3. Memories in Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thaletas felt like Deimos was just a ghost of his past. Until that ghost showed up, with promises of hunting down an old friend of his. Thaletas must deal with his feelings, while Deimos pretends he doesn't have any at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah there, hi! Sorry this chapter took so long, I've been under the weather recently. Apologies if this isn't how you saw the fic going, but it is what it is. Don't worry, more of their special vacation will be revealed, in time ;)  
> I won't say this anymore, but another reminder that comments/kudos are what motivate me, usually in that last stretch of completing a chapter (this is, of course, never required.) i love hearing what you guys think!  
> TW for this chapter: Not a lot. Deimos' emotions, talk of murder and revenge, Deimos gets emotional, etc.
> 
> (THIS CHAPTER WAS EDITED ON 12/13/20)

Deimos stood at the top of the mountain, the sun shining down on him, catching the light on his demigod armour. There was a small smile on his lips, and Thaletas’ heart fluttered; it fluttered, because he knew that smile was only for him. He only smiled when the two of them were there, on top of the mountain, alone together. And here they were, alone.

Deimos looked at him with those beautiful, untamed eyes, and the rest of the world melted away for Thaletas.

Closer. Closer.

They got so close that day.

\------------------------------

Thaletas’ eyes opened, his fingernails digging into the old wood of the strategy table he was leaning on for support. Although the activity around his current garrison was low, you could never be too prepared.

He still remembered that trip. He remembered how deeply he had fallen in love with Deimos, a wild animal, and how he had to let that wild animal off his leash. Sparta would always call for him at the worst times, and it showed on Deimos’ face on Thaletas’ last day in Sparta.

Even now, around a year later, Thaletas wasn’t sure which of the two of them had more anger in their guts, all pointed at the officer, at Sparta, at the way they would get so close, then pull away, just at the last moment, like some sort of sick dance-

Thaletas rubbed his temples. No. No, all of this was just him reliving Deimos. How that man, even after cutting ties with the Cult, still managed to get himself in your head, like a weed. One that twists around your mind and just- keeps you there. Thinking about him.

“Get out of my head…” He mumbled to himself, even though it was like talking to a ghost, a ghost that was long gone. It would do nothing for the memories, or the butterflies that were birthed by Aphrodite herself in his stomach when he remembered Deimos’ goddamn smile.

“Er, sir?”

Thaletas’ eyes moved up, finding the soldier standing at his tent’s entrance. He was clad in Spartan armor, although his helmet was missing.

“What could be so important that you need to disturb me now?” Maybe his words themselves were harsh, but his tone was even, neutral almost.

The soldier shifted his weight from one foot to another, not meeting Thaletas’ eyes. “There’s a man, at the entrance. Er, of the fort. He wants to meet with you.”

Thaletas let out a soft sigh. “It’s late. I’m not currently taking visitors. Leave me.”

“Sir-” His voice raised an octave, and the soldier fiddled with his gauntlet. “You’re really going to want to see him. I think he killed a guard. Or two, you know, the ones patrolling down the road. Threatened the ones at the gate.”

Thaletas quirked an eyebrow. “What’d he say?”

“Huh?”

“To the guards at the gate.”

“Oh.” The soldier looked to be recalling something for a minute. “He said… that he’ll ‘run his sword through your groin’.”

Thaletas froze.

 _“Thaletas, if you don’t get back here this instant, I’ll-” Deimos huffed. “I’ll run my sword through your groin!” He glanced around the small clearing in the middle of the woods, a grin plastered to his face._

_A red-faced Thaletas, who was hiding behind a large tree, couldn’t contain his laughter. He came stumbling out, smiling just as wide as his companion. “What?” He laughed some more after that, because who says that and tries to be intimidating about it?_

_Deimos didn’t answer him, not with words. He just kept laughing, too. They laughed, and Deimos smiled, and Thaletas forgot that the rest of the world existed._

Thaletas stood a little taller as he grabbed his sword off the table, putting it back in its sheath. “Bring me to him.”

The soldier seemed relieved when Thaletas said that; his shoulders dropped a bit, and he nodded frantically. “Right away, sir. This way, sir.”

He followed the soldier out of the tent, and down the path to the entrance. The whole way, everyone around them was silent. Not a single word was spoken, not a single noise uttered.

Thaletas was their leader. He should reassure them, tell them how everything was fine, to go back to their posts, or drinking, or laughing or pretending that they were guaranteed to live until the sun came up. But he had nothing for them. His throat was dry and sore, and his tongue limp.

Deimos. How did he figure out where Thaletas was? Why was he here? Was he still angry? Did he want to kill Thaletas? The officer didn’t doubt that he had the ability to not only kill him, but ruthlessly slaughter any other soldier that got in his way. Maybe he would. 

He already had tonight, according to the soldier.

Thaletas let out a breath. He would handle this and keep his men safe. 

As they reached the entrance, Thaletas’ pace slowed until he was stopped dead in his tracks. His arms felt weak, weak enough that he realized he probably couldn’t hold a sword properly anymore.

Deimos.

He looked different, yet the same. Same haircut, same beads, same build and the same armor, although with its fair share of new dents and scratches. Yet, he was so different; there were more scars on his arms and face, a particularly prominent one on his neck catching Thaletas’ eye. It looked more like a burn than a slash.

Deimos looked, just… tired. Older, too. Like the year between them had not been kind at all, and Thaletas did not doubt that, considering the other man’s life luck.

“You killed my guards.” It was a stupid thing to say; anything else would have been better, really. But Thaletas’ mouth was dry, and it took him long enough to find those words on its own.

Deimos just smiled, and Thaletas felt a little better. “They were in my way.”

A beast. An animal, who had ripped off its leash and was free. It was free, and yet here it was, crawling back to Thaletas like it needed him.

“Come. I’ll fix you a drink.”

Thaletas could feel his soldier’s stares on the back of his neck and out of the corner of his eye. Sure, they would question his choice, and he would, too; but Deimos’ eyes were sparkling, even in the dead of night, and Thaletas found it extremely difficult to turn away.

“I need one.”

“You look like it.” Thaletas led Deimos through the camp, towards his tent. The walk was not long, but the Spartan officer noticed Deimos’ eyes the entire way. They were glued on the other soldiers, watching them as they watched him.

Like animals, sizing each other up before one of them pounced, tearing throats and scratching at eyes.

Thaletas remembered what happened during his visit. He remembered how Deimos’ eyes seemed to almost glaze over, like he wasn’t there anymore, it was just his anger and his strength that lunged for Stentor.

He’s still surprised he had the courage and strength to restrain an unrestrained beast like that. Deimos was not human in that moment, and it still terrified Thaletas.

He snapped back to attention when they reached his tent. Pushing the flaps aside for Deimos, he stepped in after, taking a cursory glance out before closing the tent completely.

Deimos was already looking around, running his hands over a map here or a chest there. Thaletas half expected him to break something, but he was so delicate and gentle with everything that he touched, that the officer wasn’t quite sure if he was really touching anything at all.

“What a small tent, yet it feels like you, Thaletas.” His voice was low, and soft.

Thaletas’ breath caught in his throat.

Deimos.

The man who spoke like he knew everything about Thaletas, and maybe he did, in a sense. Maybe he had said enough, done enough, during their time together that Deimos could anticipate his every move. Maybe he knew before they even properly met. It didn’t matter, because the way he said those words, it made his heart flutter.

“Why are you here, Deimos?”

Deimos let out a pleased hum at the sound of his name, taking a seat on the top of Thaletas’ personal chest. “I was in the area, heard of a Spartan garrison with a certain Polemarch leading his men. I thought, ‘to Hades, he left me once, might as well pop in and say hello’.”

Thaletas frowned, sighing softly. “You’re a horrible liar. And you’re guilt-tripping me.”

“You fucking left. We were getting somewhere, and-” He shook his head, and Deimos’ face when blank again. “I’m not angry. I’m learning to not be angry, Thaletas.”

“You’re getting somewhere.”

He smiled, just a bit, at Thaletas. Then, Deimos turned his attention to the chest he was sitting on. “What’s in here?”

“Personal objects.” Thaletas crossed the tent to Deimos’ side. “Some drachmae, maybe an old sword or a dagger…”

“The drawing?”

The drawing. The one of Thaletas that Deimos had sketched during the second-and-last week of his trip to Kassandra’s home. It was a stunning portrait, really; even if Thaletas thought that Deimos made him look a little too pretty.

Even still, he managed to capture every line, every scar, the glint in Thaletas’ eyes and the way his lips upturned ever so slightly when he didn’t want you to know that he was really enjoying himself.

“Of course. But it’s not in there.”

“Where is it?” Deimos turned back to Thaletas, crossing his legs slowly.

Thaletas almost fainted at the sight.

“I, uh-” He cleared his throat. “It’s in my armor. Here.” He dug his fingers into the space between his chestplate and his tunic, pulling out the folded up drawing. “I like having it on me. Gives me good luck in battle.”

“Does it now?” Deimos was grinning, and Thaletas’ head throbbed comfortably at the sight. “I wonder how that works.”

The officer put the drawing back, dipping his head down so Deimos couldn’t see his blush. “Why, uh, why are you really here, Deimos? There must be an actual reason.”

Deimos sighed slowly. “I heard you were hunting an old friend of mine.”

Thaletas’ eyebrows furrowed. “Who-”

“Kassandra,” He jumped in before Thaletas could finish his sentence. “She told me you were searching for an Athenian Cultist. Nefeli.”

The officer nodded slowly, taking in every last bit of Deimos’ words.

“I know where she is. She’s around here, sitting on Cultist wealth.”

Thaletas breathed. “You’re joking.” He leaned against the table for support, tracing his fingers over his helmet next to him as he stared at Deimos. “That’s not funny. We’ve been searching for over two fucking weeks!”

Deimos held up his hands in defense. He was still smiling, but just barely. Thaletas didn’t remember him smiling much until the end of his trip. Had he smiled after Thaletas was gone? Or was he saving it until now, when they could reunite? Or was he even really smiling at all, or was this just an act he'd learned in their time apart? Thaletas particularly despised that last thought.

He breathed heavily.

“I’m not joking!” Deimos didn’t seem to notice the inner war Thaletas was fighting; or, if he did, he didn’t bring it up. “She told me where she would go if things went South. I consider their current situation quite ‘south’.”

Thaletas swallowed hard. “What do you know about her?”

“Only everything.” Deimos ran his fingers over the wood of the chest. “She’s captured and killed many Spartans, she’s always had a particular distaste for you men clad in red. Her father was Spartan, and he defected from the cult, so I can see why.”

He nodded. Any information is good information, even if he didn’t particularly care about what her daddy was and what he did.

“She won’t have many guards, not like she used to. After I left, parts of the Cult crumbled. The men and women who specifically followed her had diminished in numbers.” Deimos shrugged.

Finally, something he could actually work with. Thaletas grinned. “Where is she?”

“In the mountains, north of here. I’ll take you to her hideout.” He paused, his smile slowly dissipating as he stared Thaletas down. Thaletas knew he wasn’t really looking in his eyes. “On one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“I get to kill her.”

Thaletas went quiet for a long, long moment. He nodded slowly, taking more time to stall before speaking. “Deimos, are you sure that’s what you want?” His voice was low and even, a warning.

“Goddammit, Thaletas, yes!” He slammed his fist onto the desk, and Thaletas winced at the noise. “Yes. She… she pretended to be my friend. Got close to me. She wasn’t. She was just making sure I was cemented in the Cult. That they could-” His sentence trailed off.

Thaletas frowned, standing up. He took slow steps towards the other man, his hand awkwardly half outstretched, half not. “Deimos… I just don’t know if revenge is what you should be going for-”

Deimos stood up, moving away from Thaletas before he could touch him. “No, no. See, I should never have come. You’re still trying to tell me what I can’t and can do, like everyone else. I’m my own fucking person. I’m not Alexios, I’m not some soft, broken man- I can handle those fucking people! I handled them my whole life!” 

Deimos breathed heavy, and then his shoulders slumped. Hiding his face in his hands, the man groaned softly.

Thaletas sighed, walking over to him. Gently, he placed a hand on Deimos’ shoulder, and when he wasn’t shrugged off, he brought the broken pieces of a man to his chest.

“Breathe.”

Deimos did so, his chest rising and falling as he inhaled and exhaled softly.

“We’ll kill her. Together.” Deimos’ voice was slightly muffled against his chest, but he heard every word, every meaning and syllable.

Thaletas felt a cold, scarred palm on the top of his hand. He smiled, just a bit.

“Together, then.”

They stayed like that for a moment, until Deimos pulled away. He looked Thaletas in the eye, any hopes of getting a smile out of him one last time that night gone when Thaletas saw the look on his face. It was one of concern, like he had something to tell him, but was debating in his head. Gods forsaken him, Thaletas suddenly realized how much he hated seeing Deimos in pain like that. An internal kind of pain, one he could not remedy, even with Sparta's best field doctor.

He asked the question that had weighed heavily on his mind during the entirety of the conversation, hoping to at least give Deimos something to say. "Why kill my guards outside, then?"

"That's the problem, Thaletas..." Deimos moved completely away from him, rubbing his wrists. "They recognized me."

"Huh?" He felt like an idiot, saying that, but Thaletas was momentarily lost.

Deimos let out a breath, clearly holding in frustration. "From the Cult. They wanted to take me in, as a sign of good faith to the Sages. I had to slaughter them, and fuck Thaletas, I didn't want to." He looked at his hands before clenching them into fists.

"Wait-" Thaletas held up a hand, and Deimos turned to face him again. "So what you're saying is..."

Deimos nodded, his eyes steely and cold. "You have traitors among your ranks, my dear."


	4. Bottom of the Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deimos and Thaletas are dancing around their feelings, as well as their anxieties about the impending doom that's about to pounce upon them. Naturally, they do what normal humans do when they're being crushed by the weights of the world; they argue. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....hi there! Yes, yes! I know, it's been forever (almost a month, right?)! I'm sorry for the hiatus, and I can't promise that I will be back to a consistent upload schedule. However... I hope this chapter is nice enough for now, and that you can forgive me. Uhhh, take my favorite troubled boys as compensation.  
> TW for arguing and references to torture.

“This is bad.”

Thaletas scrubbed his face, hearing a chuckle from the other side of the tent. He didn’t dare look at Deimos.

About an hour had passed since the younger man had revealed the truth about the garrison’s situation. An hour of Thaletas pacing and ranting, an hour of Deimos just nodding thoughtfully, silently, horribly silent.

“Is that your final conclusion? We’ve been sitting here for eons.”

Thaletas finally looked over at him, a small smirk sitting on his lips. “Very funny. You do understand the severity of our current situation, don’t you?” 

He longed for Deimos’ calm, unbothered demeanor to suddenly become infectious, but he did not have the luxury. Maybe he would have, on the islands, when he was but a rebel, even just for a moment; now, he had responsibilities, personally given from Sparta. He had men to lead and care for, and apparently, to sift through like looking for valuables in the sand.

“Of course I do.” Deimos grabbed a vase of wine, pouring it into two of the glasses left on the table. “It’s very serious, actually. Have you ever even dealt with the cult this close up?”

Thaletas narrowed his eyes. Wouldn’t he already know?

“Didn’t you delegate everyone? You know.”

Deimos stopped mid-pour, looking up at Thaletas. “I knew everyone, yes. But I didn’t delegate them. That wasn’t my job.”

“Then what was your job?” He moved over to the table, grabbing a glass of wine.

Deimos swallowed, setting the vase down with intentional care. “My name is Deimos. I’m the god of fear. What do you think my job was, Thaletas?”

His name on Deimos’ tongue sounded so… sad. Hesitant on the ‘D’, drawing it out for an extra beat instead of just getting on with it, like everyone else. His voice was filled with a dark longing. Longing for what, he wasn’t sure.

“Deimos-”

Thaletas watched the other man shake his head and sip his wine. “It doesn’t matter anymore. The point right now is that we have to find those traitors, or you’ll be dead before the sun rises.”

Thaletas’ breath caught in his throat. If anyone else had said that, it would have been a threat; yet somehow, the way Deimos casually laid it out for him, it felt easy to nod in agreement. 

He sipped his wine as a plausible excuse to stay silent, but he was even more tempted to spit it right back out. To Dionysus, that wine was bad. The grapes must have been spoiled.

“And how, exactly, do we do that?” Once he had swallowed the liquid horseshit, he finally offered something of use to the conversation.

Deimos laughed again, offering Thaletas the vase of wine, a silent offer to pour him another cup. He shook his head, a polite smile on his face.

Deimos shrugged, pouring himself another glass. 

“Bait.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bait. We’ll use you, and our good friend Nefeli, as bait.” He sipped his wine, giving Thaletas another breathless moment to wait for more context. “I was thinking this through on the ride here, you know,” He added, noticing the officer’s uneasy expression. It didn’t help his nerves.

Thaletas let out a quick breath. “Of course you were. I don’t doubt that.” He paused. “Oh, and of course that’s your idea, putting me in the middle of danger without any sense of what’s going on.”

Deimos crossed his legs, leaning back a bit as he used his hands to prop himself up enough to keep eye contact with the polemarch. He looked so calm, yet so tense at the same time; his shoulders were squared up and his blunt nails were digging at the wooden table. Yet, his gaze was even and his face unmoving.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll tell you the plan, but only if you ask nicely.” He didn’t smirk, not like you would expect with that type of comment.

Thaletas wasn’t entirely sure he knew the man in front of him. The man he had gotten close to so long ago was horribly pained, all the time; this one seemed numb, unbothered.

\----------

_Thaletas gazed at Deimos’ lounging figure, a cup of wine in his hand. The sunlight filtered in through the open window, illuminating the troubled man like he was Aphrodite’s mortal lover._

_Thaletas took the cup from his hand. “You drink too much nowadays, Deimos.”_

_He received a glare in response, but it was weak, and quickly dropped from Thaletas’ face to the rest of him. “And how would you know?”_

_“I think a lowly Spartan like me has some sort of capacity to understand you, agapiménos.”_

_Deimos laughed, and Thaletas found it heavenly, although he was painfully aware how the pet name made the man flinch._

\----------

Due to a brief moment of melancholy and introspection, Thaletas was sure now that he loathed the change, in a sort of selfish way. Deimos was a project, last year; something that they were working on, together. Or so he thought. But it seemed like Deimos didn’t need Thaletas to heal, or at least properly mask his emotions like the rest of them. 

“Alright, tough guy, what’s your plan?” Thaletas’ eyes narrowed slightly, but his face was still soft. He had a hard time genuinely scrutinizing Deimos; it was simply another version of that man lounging under the sun.

Deimos rolled his eyes. “Simple, really. Announce that you’re going to fight Nefeli, and that I’ll be here, running the camp.”

“I’m assuming that you won’t be at the camp, and that it’s just a lie?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Deimos’ eyes glistened with the emotions that you see in a predator that just spotted its prey. “If you go after Nefeli, any Cult member with half a brain will follow you, I’m sure of that. I’ll stay hidden, round them up when we’re isolated, and then... the fun part starts.”

That last part set off alarm bells in his head. “Wait just a moment, Deimos.” At the use of his name, the former god’s lips tightened into a thin line. “‘The fun part’? What in all of Hades’ domain does that mean?”

A scoff and an eye roll. “Someone’s a little dense. How do you think we extracted information from people in…” He paused, his face giving way to the inner battle he was fighting Yet, it was over just as soon as it had started. “...My earlier years.”

Thaletas really didn’t like this now. Yes, Cult members should be punished; but they fought by his side at some point nonetheless, and the thought of torture went against everything he had built up for himself since the islands, since Kyra. “We’re not- no! We’re not doing that!” He threw his hands up in frustration, and just the tiniest of flinches was displayed from the other person in the room.

Deimos looked away. “Fuck, Thaletas! Fuck. What else am I supposed to do, ask them really nicely to tell us everything they know?” He looked back at the Polemarch. “Yeah, we both want the Cult dead, but I think we’re not clear on how that’s going to be achieved!”

“Would you want someone to corner you and torture you, Deimos!? Like everyone else, like you, they have been brainwashed! Broken! We may have to kill them, yes, but we will make it merciful and pray the gods take mercy on them!”

Deimos stood up in one swift and powerful motion, easily towering over Thaletas. There it was, again; the power shift. It only took one word, one moment, and everything was changed once more. Thaletas contemplated grabbing his sword once more.

“There is no mercy in this world, and there are no gods!” Deimos ran a hand through his hair, the beads jingling when they hit each other. “If there are, they have abandoned us long ago.”

The Spartan rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, looking anywhere but Deimos. “You have no idea what you’re saying. The gods have not abandoned you-”

“Then they have sat by and watched as I was thrown off the mountain, taken in by a Cult, and forged by fire? I am a sword, Thaletas.” He motioned to himself. “I am a weapon. I am no person. What gods would allow this?”

“Ones that let you escape.” Thaletas’ faith was debatable; steadfast believing was only one of many outcomes after being in as many fights as he had.

Still, he found comfort in the thought that there were beings, far less imperfect than himself, watching over them. Guiding his sword as he struck every enemy, even though the training he had gone through was nothing but his own work.

Deimos’ view wasn’t just skeptical. It was destructive, destructive of order and structure. He had nothing, no one to look up to, to pray to when things felt dark.

What was that even like? He wasn’t sure he could accurately empathize. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to.

Thaletas turned his back to Deimos, which probably wasn’t a good idea. He just couldn’t bring himself to look at that beautiful face contorted by pain and anger. “Can we not argue anymore tonight? You walk into my camp, give me information I have no way of verifying, then yell at me. And you’re hogging the wine.” He motioned helplessly towards the vase of liquor. 

Deimos laughed, one of his bitter laughs, yet again. “I would apologize if I had the ability to feel that anymore.”

He looked over his shoulder, meeting the beast’s gaze. “Stop.”

“What?”

Thaletas turned fully. “Stop that. Stop saying things that just-” He growled under his breath in frustration. “You are impossible, you know that?”

“So Kassandra has told me. Although, I think she’s done it with far more affection.”

This? This sent Thaletas’ head spinning. He was a calm man, but like every Spartan, there were certain battles he could not resist fighting.

“You have no clue what I feel for you, Deimos. Or what I don’t. You don’t know what I think.”

Deimos hummed. “I think I do.”

Thaletas shook the memory away before it managed to latch onto his brain, like it had on so many nights. “No. No, not anymore. It’s been a year, Deimos. I messed up.”

“That you did.”

Ah, alright, he saw what Deimos was doing. The whole ‘total agreeance’ thing was infuriating, and that’s exactly why it was happening.

“I missed you, Deimos.”

“You left me.”

“I missed you, but you were not the only thing in my life at the time.”

An amused hum. “Funny. That sentence implies that things have changed.”

Thaletas tipped his head back, looking at the worn cloth that had been his ceiling for almost a month. He debated on praying, just for a moment.

Yet, that moment passed, and there was silence.

“Why do you argue with me, Deimos? Why? What do you gain?” His voice was hoarse, and felt odd, considering the angle his head was at.

“Because it’s easier.”

“Easier than what?” He stood normally, his eyes falling on the man he was with a year ago.

Deimos smiled. It was a smile, a real one, but it was no grin. 

“I’ll be back bright and early. Try not to drown yourself in that wine. It sucks.”

On his way to the exit, Deimos’ shoulder brushed Thaletas’ own. 

Sparks of fire lit up in Thaletas’ gut.

He was in trouble.


	5. The Gods Have Touched This Place And I Want To Burn It Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't go as planned. Deimos feels like his old self, and struggles to bring himself back after. Thaletas offers him indulgence in what he wants, but everything has a price. Deimos' price weighs more than drachmae.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm back, and I'm making up for another hiatus with a longer chapter. This one is really heavy violence wise, so if you're not into that, I'd skip (however, things get more romantic, so...). TW for that stuff. I've been going through and editing the previous chapters, specifically italicizing stuff so it makes more sense. If you want to go back, you're free to do so obviously. happy reading! comments are loved and appreciated :)

_In Deimos’ dream, Thaletas isn’t wearing his armor._

_He’s dressed in a white robe, a gold woven belt giving it some shape. He looks peaceful, happy even, sitting on a bed of flower petals atop a small mountain which overlooks the ocean._

_Deimos approaches him, without very much thought to it. That’s usually how his dreams went, anyway; it was a time to just do, not to think or contemplate or worry. He does feel a warm sensation in his gut though, that’s slowly blossoming to other parts of his body. He registered it as affection, and then instantly came to loathe it, even in his dream._

_The sun was radiating down on the Spartan, illuminating his chocolate eyes, that glistened with a delight Deimos hadn’t ever seen in anyone. There was a bowl of olives next to him, barely touched._

_Neither of them said anything, although Thaletas looked as if there were words on the tip of his tongue. Words he could not say, not yet at least. Deimos wasn’t sure exactly how he knew that; he just did, and it was true._

_“One day,” Thaletas started, and his voice was smooth and shook Deimos’ bones. “We will sit here, on this mountain. And we will smile. Really smile.”_

_He couldn’t even feel his mouth, or his tongue, but he knew he was speaking. “I haven’t smiled in a long time.”_

_Thaletas didn’t seem to hear him, or if he did, the Spartan promptly ignored him. “I long to enjoy the little things with you.”_

_What does that even mean? He wanted to ask that, to ask a million questions, but no words came out._

“Deimos.”

_He tried to answer, assuming that the Thaletas in front of him had been the one to speak, but his mouth would not move and no sound came out._

“Deimos!”

The aforementioned man shot upwards, painfully aware of the rough cloth of the cot under him.

Of course. The mountain, the olives, the happy Thaletas was all a dream. He was actually in a small tent, as far away from the Polemarch’s own tent as possible, on an uncomfortable cot in the middle of what he considered to be a mental and physical warzone.

He looked up at Thaletas -the real Thaletas, with hard eyes and fresh wounds and his scuffed up armor- as he tried to blink the sleep from his eyes. Deimos was pretty sure that Thaletas was glaring, but he didn’t really know; he never looked anyone in the eyes, not really, and he wasn’t about to start.

“Do you fucking hear what’s going on?”

Well, now he did. Screaming. Deimos heard screaming, battle cries, too. The clashing of swords.

And suddenly, for a moment, he wasn’t in the tent anymore. He was trapped under a tree, Kassandra looming over him.

“Deimos!”

But now he was back, and Thaletas was offering his sword to him, which he supposedly picked up off the floor. It was glowing, but Thaletas didn’t seem deterred.

Deimos grabbed the sword, standing up. His head was still swimming; he wasn’t entirely sure what was real and what was still lingering memories, pieces of dreams, but somehow Thaletas felt so grounding, so there, that a surge of confidence filled him. “Who’s attacking?”

“Who do you think?” Thaletas’ voice is sharp and rough, just like his hands, his eyes, his mouth, just like the sword in his hands. “Nefeli and her group found us.”

Deimos cursed lowly, already halfway out the tent before Thaletas caught up to him. The sword was glowing harder now, and he could feel the magic in his hands, his arms, his chest. And then it turned to rage, and he charged straight into the mess of the battle.

How? They were planning on enacting the plan in the morning. A million possibilities ran through Deimos’ head as his sword started to dimly glow. Did someone overhear their conversation and report back to Nefeli? It was the most logical answer, although all it did was fuel his rage even more.

Bodies and blood clashed with each other, the cries of men and the pang of metal against metal filling his ears, his head, until he couldn’t hear anything more than the pumping of his own heart.

The demigod’s sword cut through bodies like butter. Fleshy, bony butter, sure, but the skills of battle came back to him like remembering your favorite lines of poetry. Deimos’ last real battle had been a long while ago, sure, but he remembered every vital organ, every line where you should cut to watch your enemy die, slow enough that you have a moment of an odd peace with yourself.

And then Deimos would move on to the next Cult member, and the cycle of bloodlust would repeat.

At some point, Thaletas had joined Deimos’ side. At first, he didn’t see him- he felt him, felt his aura, his anger, his fear and his regrets. For a heated moment, as they took out Cultist after Cultist, they were connected. Bonded together, forged by the fire of battle.

There were no differences. Deimos was no more of a beast than Thaletas was, and Thaletas was no more of a Spartan than Deimos was. They were just warriors, just swords with men attached to them.

Men with emotions. Emotions that they could address after.

The battle couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, yet to Deimos, it felt like centuries. When it did end, as well as a battle could end, he took in a gasping breath, looking at Thaletas.

Thaletas stared back. There was a flicker in his eyes, his golden armor soaked with blood.

The supposed demigod wasn’t entirely sure which part of him right now was more attractive. He knew he was covered in blood as well; that familiar sticky sensation covered his arms, his neck, his face, his armor… he vaguely wondered if Thaletas found that attractive, too.

Then Thaletas was smiling. No, grinning. And then he was closing the gap between them, and his lips were bloody, but they were so close and Deimos could feel his breath against his own skin-

The moment was shattered when the sound of horses could be heard over the hill. Deimos pulled away quickly, gripping his bloody sword in hand to face who was coming.

Somehow, he knew before he had even seen her face. He knew because there was a stifling sense of doom that followed her. That had followed him, at one point, too. Maybe it still did, he wondered as the woman came to a halt, a guard on either side of her. Maybe he gave off the same dread that Nefeli did, the type that made people kneel.

Deimos stepped forward, his grip on his sword loosening. He was not a soft person, nor one for nostalgia. But her face -his friend’s face- had not changed, not since he defected and left her behind.

‘Left her behind’ was a little harsh on himself. He tried to save her, to bring her back to Sparta; he told her that he’d find her a job, something to do, even if he couldn’t promise that. Her response? Well, she stabbed him in the shoulder.

It’s about what he was expecting. In fact, it was the optimistic outcome- she could have aimed for the throat, after all. 

“Deimos.” Nefeli smiled, but it was more of a snarl. “How lovely to see you cohorting with the horse shit on the bottom of my sandal. You fit well with them, you know.”

The Spartan soldiers looked like they wanted to pounce. To rip her to shreds for what she had done to so many just like them. Thaletas had the same look in his eye, but when Deimos stepped forward, he let him. 

It wasn’t Thaletas’ battle, after all. Not really. Not like it was Deimos’.

He wanted to retort with something witty, something that might make Thaletas laugh, at another point in time. But he didn’t. He couldn’t find the energy, not even with the adrenaline from battle still pumping through his veins. “Nefeli,” He managed. “Nefeli.”

The second one was more certain; his tone was harsher. It was a warning and he meant it.

She just laughed. “You still have a chance, you know. The Sages may not take you back, but I will. You could be my loyal hound once again.”

This was fucking bullshit. Loyal hound? He was never anyone’s loyal hound. Unwilling pawn, sure, but hound? To Hades with the thought that he’d ever submit like a lapdog, especially to the likes of Nefeli.

The anger was bubbling in his chest again, threatening to spill over and take control of his body again. Deimos pushed it down as best he could. He hadn’t spent the year without Thaletas suppressing unwanted emotions for nothing.

“In your dreams would I take pity on you and come back.” And yet here he was, moving forward, the textured feel of the sword’s hilt against his palm. “The Cult has caused so much pain, too much pain; why can’t you see that?”

Nefeli narrowed her eyes. “Because blood spilled in the name of rebirth is blood I’m willing to spill.”

Rebirth. He had that drilled into him since the first day of training. The Cult wanted the entirety of Greece to go through a rebirth; a slaughtering of innocents to make way for the oppressors. 

He could faintly hear Kleon’s voice, in the back of his head. Whispers of greater things, all while telling him of his worthlessness without the Cult, wrapped into one big package of a mindfuck that Deimos wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, who he wasn’t even sure of anymore.

“Leave.” His voice was low, and he ignored the look Thaletas gave him. He wouldn’t understand. “Leave, and I’ll never look for you ever again.”

He had trouble imagining his sword in her neck. She was far from good, sure, but Nefeli was his friend at one point. They hunted boar together. They escaped capture together. They had ruthlessly slaughtered innocent people together.

But she was not the Nefeli that Deimos had seen when he was in the cult. Maybe it was the lenses he was looking through, but… this was just a shell of a woman. A cold outer being that just killed, and drank, and did whatever she was told. This was no Nefeli. 

“You know I can’t do that, Deimos,” She clicked her tongue, almost scoldingly. “We all have our time, when the Gods come to collect us. I do believe it’s yours now.”

He let out a breath. That stubbornness had been endearing, once, in a big sister sort of way. Now, it just made his heart ache. “Alright.” With a small nod, Deimos stepped back, now next to Thaletas again.

The Spartans took this as their cue, rushing towards the three Cultists. Nefeli tried her best, but even with the skills she had tied to her belt, she was outnumbered.

Deimos just… watched. He couldn’t bring himself to join in on the beating- because that’s what it was. They hadn’t killed her, not yet. 

They were angry, he understood that. If it was anyone else, he’d probably do the same. But he was frozen in place now, next to Thaletas, who didn’t move either.

When the soldiers were done, they stepped back, leaving a gasping Nefeli. Deimos’ feet moved on their own again, and he was suddenly kneeling next to her. The woman looked up at him, wide eyed, searching for a sliver of pity- but she found none in Deimos’ hard, unmoving face.

“Who sent you here?” He’d give her a chance, he reasoned. “Tell me, Nefeli, because you don’t have much left.”

“Fuck-” She coughed, blood running down from her nose to her mouth. “Go fuck- yourself…”

Deimos sighed. Expected. She’d never give in or back down, never. Not for him, not anymore.

“I see.” He smiled, just a bit, and watched Nefeli’s eyes soften. “Sounds just like you, Nefeli.” He cupped her cheeks, and she laughed weakly.

“Deimos- Deimos, you’ve… grown soft, old friend-” She was still smiling, and he forced his own to widen.

“No. I haven’t.”

There was a sickening crack as her neck snapped, Nefeli’s head limp in his hands. Deimos did not pull away. He kept her head in his hands for a moment.

War. It was always about war with her. She lived it, breathed it. And she died in the middle of it. It was fitting; Deimos was almost convinced it’s how he wanted to go out, too. 

He let go, standing up. There was blood on his armor, his arms, his hands and his face. Deimos couldn’t bring himself to care.

He walked to her now-dead horse, opening the messenger bag. Like he guessed, there was a tablet in there. He didn’t read it. He just grabbed it, walked to Thaletas, shoved it into the Spartan’s arms, and walked to the tent the soldiers had given him for the night.

“Deimos-”

He heard Thaletas. He totally did. But he didn’t have the energy to respond, to tell the good Polemarch anything, to talk about how it felt like being choked and having a weight lifted off his shoulders when he snapped her neck, all at the same time.

He had dealt with everything alone, for so long. He didn’t need Thaletas.

\--+--

That night, after they had counted their wounded, prayed for their dead and burned the bodies of their enemies, the Spartans celebrated. They laughed, they drank, they joked and sang.

Thaletas joined in, because of course he did, it was basically mandatory. To have a Polemarch who could not only fight with his men, but laugh with them too, that was the true way to lead an army.

Deimos hung back towards his tent, preferring to watch. The cheerful night was tainted for him with memories of a life that had long past him.

He caught Thaletas’ eyes as the Spartan turned. His lips were upturned in a smile, a silent beckoning of Deimos.

He mouthed something that looked like ‘come on’, to which Deimos just shook his head again. Absolutely not. He will not go over there and pretend to be buddy buddy with Spartan soldiers, even if it was an excuse to sit next to Thaletas.

And then the Spartan made an exacerbated face, like he had a right to be frustrated, and he was coming towards Deimos, leaving the warm fire and his men behind, leaving them for the darkness that the ex-cultist was sulking in.

“You know, Deimos,” He starts when he’s close enough to Deimos where he can speak in a low tone, “We really haven’t had a chance to catch up.”

In the current position, Thaletas was shoulder-to-shoulder with him, Deimos’ eyes trained on the fire. Anything but Thaletas.

“Catch up? What is there to catch up on?” He couldn’t help it. His voice was harsh. There was no letting go with him. He just lets memories and experiences fester and control him until he snaps. “You left me for a year, Thaletas. Do you want me to go through every day of that year without you, hm? After our night on the mountain?” He crosses his arms, vaguely reminded of a time Kassandra told him that the motion was just someone giving themselves a hug when they felt scared. He tried not to laugh, too.

Thaletas took a breath, his voice catching in his throat for a moment. “I had a duty to my-”

“You can stop that.” Deimos glanced at him. “I will never understand how you can put a country over someone you claim to… be attracted to.”

The Spartan sighed. “I know. But Sparta has been there for me. When you were actively fighting against it, mind you.”

It stung. The dark-eyed man tried not to let it, but it did. He wasn’t even sure if Thaletas meant it like that, but it put them in two very different categories nonetheless. He would always be the enemy, and Thaletas would always fight against him, or what he represented, no matter how many times they kissed under the moon or pretend like their touches meant nothing.

Deimos wanted to strike him for that comment alone, but Thaletas’ voice was so calm, so even, that he couldn’t find the nerves in himself to raise his fist. 

“How many times do I have to stumble through my defense with you?” He hadn’t ever, actually, even though technically there was one. Hundreds of sleepless nights would lead you to forming a defense for yourself, too, even if there was no one to tell it to.

Thaletas chuckled, like he found it ironic, and the noise burned into the back of Deimos’ mind. “Zero times, actually. I know it wasn’t your fault. Kassandra filled me in on the things you wouldn’t answer.”

Of course she did, because that is exactly something Kassandra would do. She had to tell everyone with an ear to listen about how damaged he was, how she saved him from the clutches of that dastardly cult, but those people will never ask him what it was like on the inside, what he actually felt, how he feels now… he’ll never get the luxury of someone caring like that. Or the curse, depending on how you looked at it. He’ll never be a person to everyone. He is simply a symbol, a walking character from a play. 

Demios scoffed. “Not surprised. You know I didn’t tell you those things for a reason, right?”

“A reason that I struggle to grasp the concept of, yes, but I suppose a reason nonetheless.”

A beat of silence. There were so many questions Deimos wanted to ask; honestly, he had always wanted to ask the Spartan everything. About his life, about Sparta, about war- real, true war, not what he had fought in.

But he didn’t. Thaletas spoke again.

“Does it matter if I say sorry?”

“It can never hurt.” That’s a lie.

Thaletas chuckled, but it didn’t last, and it wasn’t really a laugh. “I’m sorry, Deimos.”

Deimos breathed. In. And out. His body was on fire. Thaletas was too close, he was too kind and too understanding. None of this should be real.

“I want to know so much about you,” He admitted in a mutter, hearing Thaletas’ breath hitch. “Tell me everything.”

It was a primal demand. He needed to know this man’s life, inside and out. He knew quite a bit- well, he knew what Podarkes told him, but that was always to be taken with a grain of salt. A large, heavy grain of salt, that did no favors to the real Thaletas.

But the real Thaletas was next to him, touching him, the skin that collided with the Spartan feeling like it was on fire. Someone had lit a torch and Deimos had no intentions of stomping it out. He wanted it to consume him, for him to become one with the fire, the flames, the way they sat on his heart and made him feel like the beast he was.

“Only if you do the same.”

Of course. He knew that was coming. It was a give and take in relationships, or so he had been told. Taking was so easy; giving was harder.

But Thaletas was offering him something. He required something from Deimos, yes, but this was the only chance to get what he wanted.

Deimos stared at the fire across from him, pursing his lips for a moment.

“I can try.”


End file.
